Thursday, March 8, 2012
Agatha Christie once wrote a short story called ďThe Herb of Death.Ē As I
looked at the funereal bier that was my latest attempt at growing herbs, I knew
any story I wrote would have to be titled ďThe Death of Herbs.Ē Both stories
mysteries, of course: only mine would remain unsolved.
Iíve planted herbs in clay pots, colorful enamel containers, wicker window
boxes and once in a dry fountain base filled in with the absolutely best potting
soil available. I even tried them outside in Godís good ground. I tried growing
them from seed and from seedlings. Nothing flourished.
Alas, I am the family pariah when it comes to things earthy. Mom was a farmerís
daughter and could root a straw. Once that grew, she could take cuttings and
grow a forest of them.
My sister inherited that DNA and my brothers do well here also. I am blessed
with a husband who takes after his father and is a wonderful gardener too. We
have azaleas, camellias, roses and gardenias galore. But my agricultural career
can be summed up in one short sad sentence: ďMy plastic ivy died.Ē
The sad thing about me is that I keep trying. My potted geraniums shrivel.
Replacement pansies wane. Hanging baskets of Boston ivy give up and quickly
resemble lethargic ladders. After several years and several hundred dollars
worth of fresh flowers, I have invested in a few really nice silk arrangements.
Iíve kept them going with brisk dusting and a spray cleaner.
I even have hanging baskets of colorful silk outdoors. I donít call them
artificial. Theyíre silk. Thereíre natural. Theyíre colorful, donít burn up in
the South Carolina sun and even I canít over or under water them or give them
the wrong food. They have to be fluffed up and restructured with new flowers
occasionally, but I have consistent color and no more depressing drooping.
But you canít cook with silk herbs and I love that fresh taste. Hence I was
recently seduced by my favorite grocery with these enticing pots. The herbs
were wrapped in bright plastic and all you had to do was take off the upper
sleeve, put these beauties on a tray, water them from the bottom and garner a
harvest of flavor from the top every day for weeks and weeks. I had the perfect
southern exposure window and set up my tray garden of basil, oregano and
parsley, fertilized with my perennial hope.
The very next day the bottom leaves were bending over into the tray. All the
water was absorbed and the plants felt semi-dry, so of course, I poured in a
teeny bit more water so they wouldnít die of thirst. More stems had gone
overboard the next day, so I didnít water until the soil felt just a bit drier.
The next few days teeter-tottered back and forth between wet and dry and more
sagging stems. Finally I clipped the few remaining leaves from the top and
enjoyed a couple of recipes with enhanced tomato taste. Then I scooped up the
detritus and interred the herbal remains. Iím through. Finished. No more!
On the other hand, I understand rosemary is fragrant and makes a beautiful
bush. Maybe I might try . . .
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